Odds vs Probability
by KetchRey
Summary: Without fail, every instance she shows herself capable of fault, a shard of his old self breaks off into fragments. To this day he has found himself holding on to the Carolina that was unshakeable.


During the most deplorable of moments, there are those things that just make sense.

Being forced into ones' fair share of demanding and undisclosed circumstances, where the only way out is through a fury of godawful odds... Confronting death and doubt head-on becomes a part of routine.

When your partner tells you to do something, you do it, doesn't matter what _it_ might be. When instructed to drive because lives really do depend on it, he does, making no objection when one of his hands is pried away from the wheel and stretched at an odd angle over the centre armrest of their Jeep.

Some things only make sense.

"Oww..." He yowls, the added jostles from the vehicle heightening her abrupt tweezes and prods.

"You make it worse every time you flinch."

"I flinch because you're hurting me- Ow!"

"Jesus..."

A haze of blue flares up in front of the dashboard, assuming a piqued A.I. in spartan attire, eminating his ever consistent snark.

"If I have to sit through anymore whining outta him-"

"Fuck off, Church."

"You gonna cry now too?"

Carolina inhales, pausing her procedure to glare at the cantankerous A.I. He flings both pixel clusters serving as his arms up in exasperation and her eyes roll, returning to work off Wash's gauntlet.

"Try again contacting Tucker. He can have Kimball let us know where we're needed."

"What do ya think I've been doing up here, watching re-runs of Starsky and Hutch?"

"Epsilon."

" _Fine_. Bitch..."

Right hand managing the wheel, Washington glares, eyes flicking back and forth between his confiscated hand and the rough terrain ahead.

..."If I called you that I'd lose my front teeth."

"And a few limbs in addition." She confirms, dragging his arm right back across the centre of the jeep. "He's very lucky he's synthetic- stop squirming."

"I'm driving!"

"You _chose_ to drive."

"You weren't going to offer..."

Prying his hand loose from torn kevlar she stretches out his fingers, dismissing the sharp little intake he emits. Pinning his wrist down to the centre rest, she reaches into the glove compartment of the Jeep, dragging out a fist-sized patch kit.

Through his peripherals Washington catches sight of what she's picking through. ..."Can't you please use the biofoam?"

The patch kit is slapped shut and dropped, Carolina's ankle butting it below the seats and out of sight. "Biofoam is sparse." She retorts, adjusting his wrist into better lighting. ..."We're not wasting it on something as trivial as this."

Washington's mouth peels out to form a soundless, 'trivial?' then shifts into a scowl. He tightens his hand around the wheel, sparing the chance to glance over.

Her hand holding his wrist clenches to fasten him down. Bringing the tape to her lips she tears a small strip with her teeth.

..."Gentle." He cautions, eyeing the surgical tape and scissors huddled in her lap.

"Watch the road." She growls, taking disgression with a smile when he lolls his head and his features form an affronted pout.

Pressing Washington's palm firmly around the laceration, she sets the first strip and moves on to the next. Sealing it thoroughly is what she would have preferred, but he'll be using this hand again today. Any sutures would only pop free or atrophy the unpleasantly softened slit.

"This is going to be a problem later on..."

"Well I wasn't exactly planning things longterm." Washington defends, shifting further upright in his seat. "I was trying to deal with a transparent, psycho-killer twice my body mass. Thought I was being clever."

"You could lose nerve functions in this hand, Wash."

"I've still got the other one."

She drapes down the piece of tape that seals the split in his palm and looks at him disapprovingly.

"C', I got the guys for a few seconds back there." Epsilon is speaking even before his body flashes back into its futiful place above Carolina's shoulder. "The Reds are suppose to be clearing a route, so, ya know, we need to be moving faster, cause they've proven how reliable _they_ _are_ so many times..."

"Do you see the rod?" Washington demands drawing back his bound hand and swinging it carelessly over toward the speedometer. "We're about to snap it."

"Well, fan-fucking-tastic, do I sound like I give a shit?!"

"No need to use the prepubescent voice, Church..."

"Oh that's rich coming from you. Ain't your throat sore from all that screaming?"

"Let him drive." Carolina interjects sternly. "Where are the others?"

"Just getting off four clicks from our current position. Could be three point nine if Wash here would hurry the fuck _up_."

"You are the worst backseat driver- I'm going as fast as can and these roads are shit. If we stall because something has been jarred out of a port in the undercarriage, we'll just have more time to make up."

"Wouldn't if you'd let me take the wheel..."

"That another one of your special functions?"

"Up. Yours."

"Epsilon, please," Carolina grumbles weaving a hand into her hair, temples still throbbing. ..."A few minutes, okay? That's all I'm asking."

For a moment, the little blue spartan doesn't seem to know what to do with himself.

..."Assholes." He grumbles, hologram flickering and fading out.

Inside her head, Carolina accepts the A.I.'s abrupt mood swing into artlessness and releases a pleasant grimace as he continues his half silent grouching. "He's worried." She vocalizes, immediately earning a sharp stab through her skull as Epsilon objects.

From the drivers side, Washington rolls a shoulder. "Yeah well, who isn't?"

Her fingers cling to the upper rail of the Jeep as it makes a sharp, last minute wind.

..."Yeah, these roads aren't the greatest." Washington murmurs, uncrinkling his brow around the next bend. When she fails to add to his statement with sarcasm he glances over.

Her nature of glacial rigidness is what he's accustom to. Without fail, every instance she shows herself capable of fault, a shard of his old self breaks off into fragments. To this day he has found himself holding on to the Carolina that was unshakeable. Some loose strands of copper red strewn from a ponytail, the pores around her sharp features expanded from sweat...

Before she catches him staring he pries his glare back to the windshield. He's been expecting too much. People do change. People get tired.

"Pull over here." A grating voice without form instructs.

Surprising himself, Washington bumps the clutch down and takes the perscribed detour from the gut flipping road. Too steep to drive. They would be moving on foot.

Carolina shifts her helmet under an arm to her lap, focusing a glare on the dashboard as the rumbling dies down. She spares a brief glance over at her partner, doing a double take as he flips off the seals on his helmet.

A split runs from his right eye up through his brow, and his nose is sweltered red and fleshy with bursted veins. The bridge is crooked to an unnatural angle, slanted from what she assumes was a roughly placed hit.

"You look like hell." She says after a period of scrutiny.

"Well, thanks." He grunts, wincing at a rush of wind that hits his face. "You're looking pretty awful yourself."

She nearly complies with half of an intent to cuff his head, but thinks better of it. Instead she settles on a light shove, passing him over his shredded gauntlet.

"Alright, I'm homing in on Tucker's beacon. We're within proximity of the temple. You guys can start walking."

Both Freelancers pile out of the vehicle into the mud in uncanny syncronization.

Epsilon continues his calculations.

It's not at all unorthodox when Carolina's heart begins to palpitate at the approach of threat or a challenge. She hungers for that kind of action. What _is_ odd, is the slow build of dread she's letting invade over this fight.

Carolina takes out her pistol and shotgun, having completed an equipment check. She breaks off from the car in point, Wash flanking on her right, slightly unprepared and struggling to hold both his helmet and battle rifle with one arm.

Diverting an ounce of his attention from coordinate calculations, Epsilon wafts over into her developing unease. _'It's not snooping unless you're caught'_ he justifies, neither staggering Freelancers taking notice as he submerges himself into her complexities.

"Wash," Carolina breaks, slowing down from her jog.

He comes to sliding halt, arms melding around his rifle, adjusting the weight of his helmet below his arm.

"No hostiles." She says, struggling through the uneven terrain to him. "We're okay."

Washington's jaw tilts slightly in query before he lowers his firearm and rolls the opposite shoulder. "For now, sure."

That hits her closer to home than Epsilon would've expected. The despair lifts, and had he not been paying attention he would've missed it altogether.

When she approaches, Washington starts, unexpecting the intent of interaction. He manages not to shy away when Carolina reaches her hand around his head and pulls him down to her level.

She draws in a breath and rests her forehead against his, a nervous exhale and shiver leaving Washington from vulnerability of the gesture. Fingers bury through his short, white wheat hair and graze against his scalp. Carolina breathes, internally counting her breaths and swallowing his familiarity.

With his shoulders relaxing and the discomfort forgotten, he reaches around with his free arm, awkwardly rounding her waist in a much more timid hold. Running her knuckles across his cheek, she wraps him lightly on the second swipe, adjusting to look him firmly in the eye.

"Stay close."

"Yeah, okay." He nods, loosening his arm for her to slip free.

Her fingers thread loose from his hair as he strides past her and further up the crag. Her eyes follow his back, identifying every step of the movement process as he raises his helmet. Then his face is gone and she's watching armor moving with mechanical accuracy, lifting a rifle and crouching against the sounds of battle.

The lump that forms in her throat Epsilon doesn't feel. Images running like a camera reel in her mind, he does. The fight has them both disquieted, but it's Carolina's angst he takes in. Her memories of Washington are slim outside of Freelancer, but she remembers the things he wouldn't have expected her to.

Those awful jokes, messing with his hair... How he could hit a falsetto under the right circumstances, how red he managed to turn in result of said circumstances...

"Jeez, feeling sentimental, much?"

Carolina's rebutal is only slightly delayed, alike her irritation. "...Some things are meant to be private."

He receeds himself back only a little into her mind, the desire to intrude more than a little displaced. He tastes doubt in every fracture of himself when she reconsiders.

Maybe this is what she's been preparing for. Readying herself to be the 'last', was always so taxing. She'd rather have Washington take that mantle. He might have more to live for. Epsilon feels it not only in his host, but in the atmosphere between Freelancers. He took note of the way Wash's jaw was clenched while leveling his helmet. The maternal grief eminating from Carolina...

Neither would be the last. It's an unspoken commitment between the two. They're good with that.

..."Carolina?"

"Church." She replies, in a voice that's steeled and so much unlike the tenderness that exists deep within her cognitive fissures.

..."I got yer back."


End file.
